Page 36 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

Bugger. Too late now. He had seen her.

15

‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

His awkwardness was back, she noticed. And she felt just as awkward. ‘I er… came to play Scrabble.’

‘You like Scrabble?’

‘Yes. Do you?’

‘Well, obviously. This is my Scrabble club. I mean, I’m the organiser.’

They stood gawping at each other. Jo couldn’t quite believe it. She’d never written Scrabble on her dating profile; it had seemed too geeky. And it had never even occurred to her to actively look for a man who loved the game as much as she did; it was hard enough finding a man she fancied who fancied her back, without hoping he’d share her hobby. And yet here he was. Ras. A man she fancied who liked Scrabble so much that he ran his own group.

Usually, Jo would have seen this as a sign from the Universe, only Ras, she knew, didn’t fancy her back.

It’s just a coincidence, she reminded herself. He didn’t want a second date, remember? Wouldn’t even come in for coffee.

‘I’m sorry about…’ Ras began, but then the door opened and voices echoed round the hall.

‘Doctor Ras,’ someone called.

Jo turned to see two older ladies making a beeline for him. They were both wearing the kind of clothes her paternal grandmother would have called their ‘Sunday best’. Skirts, scarves and sparkly brooches that twinkled in the harsh strip lights of the hall.

Ras seemed to change gear, from awkward mode to convivial – if a little on the quiet side – host. He shook their hands and then gestured to her and said, ‘This is Jo. Jo, meet Florence and Sylvia.’

He began unstacking more chairs. One of the women eyed Jo up and down. She was slim – the type who’d go to Zumba for the over-sixties and do Pilates every morning in her living room – with blonde highlights in her short, greying hair. She shook Jo’s hand, murmuring, ‘Nice to meet you, Jo,’ before disappearing off towards the kitchen.

‘I’m Florence,’ the other one said. ‘Are you the doc’s girlfriend?’

She was a jolly-looking woman, with dark, curly hair, probably dyed, and one continuous bosom. Jo looked at her pale-pink, silk shirt and patent black court shoes and felt somewhat underdressed in her jeans and trainers.

‘Er, no. We’re friends,’ she said.

The door opened again, and they both turned to see another woman tottering into the room on stilettos. She must have been in her fifties, but was dressed in a clingy, purple catsuit, with a low neckline revealing an admirable cleavage.

Florence raised her eyebrows at Jo and whispered, ‘That’s Linda. She fancies Ras.’

And then she added, ‘And so does Sylvia.’

She nodded in the direction of the kitchen. Through the open hatch, Jo could see Sylvia filling a large urn. Who’d have thought? Two women clamouring for Ras’s attention. Although they were both at least two decades older than him. Probably more.

An elderly man arrived. He was suited and booted, not unlike Tarquin, and he was wearing a purple bow tie.

‘Florence.’ He nodded as he walked past.

‘That’s Stan,’ she nodded back, ‘also known as Mr B.’ She glanced round the room then whispered to Jo, ‘I hope you’ve brought a dictionary. That man tries to cheat, every single week.’

Jo hadn’t thought to bring a dictionary. Was it really that competitive?

A stream of people began to trickle through the door. A blonde-haired woman, perhaps a little older than her, bearing a stack of cake tins. A spiky-haired lad of about sixteen who hopped from foot to foot, twitching with nervous energy. An older man in a stained, green jumper who looked round the room anxiously and appeared relieved when he spotted Ras. She was going to fit in here, Jo decided.

‘That’s Malcolm,’ said Florence, pointing at the man in green. ‘He’s lovely but don’t ask him about insurance. You’ll be here all night if you do. And don’t ask Sylvia about her grandchildren or her ailments, and if she asks, say you don’t like poetry or she’ll start giving you a recital.’

So much to remember.

Ras clapped his hands and said, ‘I think we’re nearly all here.’